universal skepticism, incoherence, petulance

"The Solipsist's I", "The philosopher's willowy it" from the poem about breasts and potatoes. That kind of made me not regret KI.

I don't know. I really don't. Because the world is horribly big and there are so many things you can know. It's hard to know what is enough to make me happier and understand better and be less dismally hopeless. Or maybe I'll never be happy just knowing. Maybe I need to construct little poetic sentences, or write long rambling essays with shocking conclusions, or set up a virtual shrine for the Har Kows. I mean, if there is such a wide, unbridgeable gap between what we perceive and what we take to be the external world, is it really so inconceivable that the world is actually a giant Har Kow?

So I am certainly more susceptible to bouts of instability in the wee hours of the morning, right after the Horrible PW Experience.

I have wanted you, wanted art, wanted her (!), wanted the world to be a giant Har Kow. Needs and wants. Demand and supply. Real demand. The point of equilibrium, the point of intersection. But really, who cares about badly sketched graphs? I was never any good with defining things in the first place. Wherever we intersect, I say, wherever our unmathematical, uneconomical graphs intersect, is just about right to me.

It is times like this when I just wish someone would sneak in, break in, grab me violently and shake some sense, some truth out of me.

the end of the world is in your head

From Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit: everyone thinks their situation the most tragic. How plausible. How misunderstood, how alienated by my own genius. Perhaps it's a question of perspective. Perhaps all of you are reading me right and I am the one who sits in the eye of the storm, haplessly clutching on to those flimsy pieces of self-awareness. How pathetic, how wrong. This can be the anti-emo.

It will not hurt my girlish, unsubstantial heart too much to admit that I like it that we shared a building, a corridor, that some days brimmed with the promise of you, that other days I could turn a corner and bump into you. I have the key. It sits in my pocket, heavier than it ought to be. I fancy that every bump, every crook, every tiny crater maps out the geography of your face. Only it doesn't. Only there is no real key. The tides will turn, and hopefully wash you away. Maybe one day we shall be thrown together again just so we can laugh about this.

Haruki Murakami is so symbolic it's almost annoying. But I loved every character, every plot device, every crude illustration, every bit of half-intelligible intelligent talk. He must be very competent in reconciling the mundane with the surreal. Today I found the idea of a train ride without his book strangely inconceivable.

I like the way you stroke and tease and tug at the English language with your tongue, the way those silly, endearing metaphors come tumbling out of your blasphemous mouth, riding on the easy waves of your speech. You must be sacred. In your hands language is like an instrument, and your fat fingers pluck carelessly at its strings, mere afterthoughts producing unadulterated brilliance. Or at least to my agnostic, uncultured, wanting self.

Superficially: I like how you personify tweed, how you say very good in that vaguely (and rightfully) condescending tone, how your unflattering hair flops, how your 5960292 chins wobble, and how you reprieve swear words from vulgarity, atone for their sins.

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My love for the love of language is possibly dangerous. It is unbearable to think how much I shall yield if I should meet someone half resembling you. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth both wanted a match of intellect, but I never cared much for Austen. Instead of finding a nice boy with GPA 3.80-ish, I suspect I shall spend most of my time being violently in love with young prodigies, gender unspecific.

Language binds my hands with rounds and rounds of silk when I write, and pulls.

Shipwrecked on the shore of my heart. It sounds like some overused cliche from those cheesy paperback pseudo porn novels. But like dirty laundry, turn it over a few times and it's almost acceptable. You are shipwrecked on the shore of my heart by the sea being violently ill, tossed up with bits of seaweed, dead jellyfish, chewed plastic bags, all of which are perfectly inconsequential in the great scheme of things. Assault my coconuts, rape my fruit trees, violate the gleaming sand with your imprints, send up huge columns of smoke with your crimes of arson, and be gone. Note that you never wanted to be here, and have every intention to leave.

The world is implicit, you can be my crude primary school math. My hello kitty mechanical pencil. My looney tunes eraser. My disney ruler with bumpy edges. My anti-calculator. My childish and unsubtle love - I was painfully obvious when I hit boys on their heads with my pink plastic file.